


Just Know You're Not Alone

by gczebos



Series: ( I'm Gonna Make This Place Your Home ) [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Also this is my first work please don't sue me, Bad Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, Homeless Richie Tozier, Homelessness, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Chapter 1, They're in like - early high school, This is a loser's club fic with some Eddie/Richie & Bill/Bev & Mike/Stan if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 19:58:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20766110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gczebos/pseuds/gczebos
Summary: Nobody laughed - nobody really did much of anything, and the silence, confusion, and tension caused Richie to bolt from the clubhouse before anyone could catch the tears forming behind his coke-bottle glasses, magnified for everyone to see.“W-W-What the f-fuck?”“I didn’t mean to make him upset.” Eddie’s voice came out small - confused and guilty all at once. Ben, ever the empath of their crew, placed a hand on his shoulder in solidarity.“You didn’t do anything wrong, Eddie. I think something’s up with Richie today.”Bev’s eyes met Stan’s. Something’s wrong.Stan returned her concern glance with his own. Something’s really, really wrong.





	Just Know You're Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first fic, I hope you all enjoy it! Follow me on Tumblr @gczebos and be my friend, and be sure to comment and leave kudos if you liked it! I'm trying to cook up some other fics - ideas are more than welcome!

Surprisingly, it took a while for anybody to notice - but then again, they didn’t call tenth-grade “sophomore slaughter” for nothing. The Losers came home with piles upon piles of homework every day, stacks of worksheets and wide-open textbooks scattered across every desk (well, scattered across  _ some _ desks - Stan and Eddie had their own color-coded desk organization methods down to a science, thank you very much). They hadn’t noticed anything was out of the ordinary while scrambling to get everything done on time, and that was just the way Richie wanted it.

To the untrained eye, Richie Tozier seemed like he was just as foul-mouthed, bug-eyed, and utterly obnoxious as always. The jokes were just as filthy ( _ Richie shut the fuck up my mom isn’t fucking  _ flexible _ that is absolutely abhorrent you gross ass bitch _ ), his Voices ever-present and growing in number daily ( _ W-W-What w-was that o-one, R-R-Richie? Since wh-when did you d-d-d-do an a-alien voice? _ ), and he still earned himself detention more often than not ( _ Hey don’t worry Professor J! Stan the Man’s got a small wang too! _ ). Yes, to the untrained eye, Richie Tozier was fine-and-fucking-dandy, on cloud nine all the time. It even took the Losers, who were much better versed in the mannerism, tics, and habits of the one and only Richie Tozier, nearly a month to figure out anything was wrong.

It started with a sneeze. Colds were common in Derry around this time of year - the weather was starting to get colder, and Richie did have a bad habit of biking around town without a jacket or a hat on. He let out a large sneeze at the lunch table, wiping his nose on his sleeve, much to the disgust of the smaller boy sitting right next to him. 

“Ever heard of tissues, asswipe? Jesus, now your germs are fucking everywhere.” Eddie said, already pulling out a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer. 

The reply was immediate. “Course I’ve heard of tissues, Eddie Spaghetti, best way to keep my big peen squeaky clean -”

“Beep beep, Rich.” Came a fond chuckle from Bev, who was pushing the questionable school lunch around on her tray. Before Richie could fire off another joke, he sneezed again.

“Here,” Mike said, passing him a small pack of tissues from his backpack. “Keep ‘em, in case the sneezes get worse.”

“Fank you very moch, Michael! Wot a propah young gen’leman you ah.” Richie said, tipping his invisible hat before sneezing loud enough to draw some attention to their table. 

“Are you feeling alright, Richie?” Stan asked. It made sense that Stan the Man would ask first - he’d always been able to put the pieces together miles ahead of the other Losers, especially when it came to Richie. After practically growing up as brothers, he knew Richie like the back of his hand, which is why it didn’t shock him when Richie said,

“Never better, Staniel, I think I just got dust from Mrs. K’s ancient vagina up my nose.”

“Oh, beep  _ fucking beep asshole - _ ”

Their lunch hour continued on, Richie and Eddie bickering to the point of whacking each other with empty water bottles, Bill, Ben, and Mike working together on a history assignment, and Bev stepping outside for a quick smoke. Stan rolled his eyes at their antics, but something about Richie seemed off, and not knowing just what it was made his stomach tied in knots.

* * *

It started with a sneeze, but continued with a smell. Now, Richie had never been known for his impeccable hygiene - those awards had always gone to either Eddie or Stan, sometimes even Bill. No, Richie had earned the Trashmouth title from his foul language as well as the appearance that mirrored it. Brash words and “your mom” jokes fit his unbrushed hair, Hawaiian shirts, and the occasional days spent without deodorant on. Richie was no picture of perfection, but things weren’t usually...this bad.

“Ugh, something reeks in here,” Eddie commented as he made his way into the clubhouse to join the other Losers later that week. Stan shrugged, adjusting his hair net for possibly the fiftieth time that day. Ben sniffed the air too, before trying to identify the source of the unpleasant scent. 

“Maybe someone left food in here overnight?” He suggested, looking around for anything out of the ordinary.

“Doesn’t really smell like food, though,” Bev added from the corner her and Bill were occupying.

“N-N-No, it smells m-more like - l-like, d-d-dirty clothes.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” Mike chimed in, hopping off of the hammock as the hammock timer went off. Richie, who had been half asleep on the floor, drooling over one of Eddie’s X-Men comics, scrambled to the hammock for his turn. Eddie beat him to the punch, jumping into the hammock before Richie could try and fit his gangly limbs into it.

“Fuck off, Rich. I already called it next.”

“Aw Eds, you don’t wanna share?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to - “ Eddie was interrupted when he inhaled the foul smell again, but this time twice as strong as before. Richie. “Oh my god, I’m  _ not  _ sharing the hammock with you when you smell like  _ that _ , Jesus, when was the last time you fucking showered, asshole?”

To everyone’s surprise, Richie’s mouth clamped shut at that, as if someone had “beep beep”ed him. The boy who was always throwing jokes around suddenly looked serious, an alarming shift to those who picked up on it. Stan and Bev’s eyes narrowed as Richie began fumbling over his words, looking for the right thing to say.

“It’s - you know, your mom...she fuckin’ stinks so you can’t really, uh, blame me Eds -  _ Eddie _ , sorry. Uh, you know what they say, an onion a day keeps - keeps the STDs away!” Richie retorted as best he could, his ears growing red and a sad attempt at a smile on his face.

Nobody laughed - nobody really did much of anything, and the silence, confusion, and tension caused Richie to bolt from the clubhouse before anyone could catch the tears forming behind his coke-bottle glasses, magnified for everyone to see.

“W-W-What the f-fuck?”

“I didn’t mean to make him upset.” Eddie’s voice came out small - confused and guilty all at once. Ben, ever the empath of their crew, placed a hand on his shoulder in solidarity.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Eddie. I think something’s up with Richie today.”

Bev’s eyes met Stan’s.  _ Something’s wrong. _

Stan returned her concern glance with his own.  _ Something’s really, really wrong. _

It didn’t take long for Bev to start making her way out of the clubhouse, the others following behind her. “Come on, let’s get our Richie back.”

* * *

Richie ran as far as his legs could take him. He hadn’t even thought to take his bike when he stormed out of the clubhouse, and even though his legs were beginning to ache and his lungs were starting to burn from all the running, he couldn’t stop. He ran and ran and ran and ran until he found himself standing outside of his house completely out of breath, smelling like a gym locker, and tears blurring his vision.

He stared at the house, the light on in the living room and the upstairs bedroom his parents shared. The light in his bedroom was off, just as it had been for the past three weeks. Richie hated his house, hell, he hated his whole family, but at this moment he wanted nothing more than to go inside, take a hot shower, and sleep in an actual bed.

Three and a half weeks was a long time to sleep through the cold November nights in the clubhouse hammock.

The argument that fateful night hadn’t been pretty. Maggie Tozier was drunk ( _ when isn’t she? _ ), and making foul comments about Richie and his friend group. Her words were sharp, her tone piercing, cutting into his heart because that’s his mom - she’s supposed to be loving and nurturing or a little overprotective like Eddie’s mom - not calling him names and telling him how worthless he is in this world. Wentworth wasn’t much better. He matched his wife’s words with his actions, beer bottles and plates shattering as they either hit Richie or the wall behind him. 

Apparently word had gotten back to them that he’d been seen holding Eddie Kaspbrak’s hand after school - 

(“ _ Oh please, say to me, you’ll let me be your man,” “Shut the fuck up Richie your singing voice sucks,” “And please, say to me, you’ll let me hold your hand!” “You’re such a dweeb and - what the fuck why is your hand so sweaty you weirdo, are you sick?” _ ) 

And on top of that, rumors were spreading that he had tried to seduce Henry Bowers’ cousin multiple times at the arcade - 

( _ “Oh my god, Richie, you’re bleeding,” “You should, uh, see the other guy. Now patch me up, Uris.” _ )

The Tozier parents could handle being called drunks, liars, and bums, but they absolutely wouldn’t let their reputation be tarnished by having a “faggot” for a son. They’d made their stance loud and clear that night, pushing Richie out the door with barely a handful of his personal belongings before locking him out for good.

It had been a long three and a half weeks.

After catching his breath, Richie kept running. He ran, no clue where his feet were taking him, but as long as he was running, he didn’t have to face the truth. He didn’t have a home anymore - he didn’t have parents, a family, a bed to call his own - yes, if Richie just kept running, he’d run away from it all, and he’d be just fine. He’d be okay. He repeated those words in his head like a personal mantra, trying to forget the disgusted look on Eddie’s face when he realized it was Richie stinking up the whole clubhouse, trying to forget the day he’d stolen medicine from the pharmacy for the cold he’d developed after sleeping in thirty-degree weather without blankets or warm clothes, trying to forget how his parents hadn’t really been wrong calling him the ugly words that they did and trying to forget how much they hurt, truth or not.

His feet had taken him to the quarry, and Richie stopped just short of the cliff’s edge. It was a beautiful night in Derry, Maine, which just felt fucking evil because Richie couldn’t even enjoy the way the sunset was glimmering against the surface of the water below him. A breeze blew past, and the fifteen-year-old shivered, his shirt and jeans doing a horrible job of keeping the cold out. He took a deep breath, his own rank smell entering his nose and  _ for fuck’s sake, I really do smell fucking disgusting _ , he thought, before laughing because he’d lived up to his nickname, hadn’t he?

God, he was tired. And hungry - he hadn’t eaten a full meal in ages, taking what he could get from the cafeteria, or stealing little bites from his friends’ lunchboxes now and again. Richie was tired, hungry, cold, and done. The jokes that typically spilled over his lips were nowhere to be found now; the shit-eating grins he typically wore were gone.

Looking down at the water, he sighed.

_ Might as well rinse off the stink somehow. _

And without a second thought, he jumped into the water, shatter the sunset illusion that had been painted there only seconds before.

* * *

“He wasn’t at the barrens.”

“I didn’t see him at the arcade.”

“H-H-H-He wasn’t at the m-m-movies, the ph-ph-pharmacy, or at sc-school.”

“He left his bike at the clubhouse, he has to come back for it at some point.”

“He wasn’t at my place.”

“Or mine.”

“Has anyone checked his house yet?” Ben asked, only to be met with shaking heads.”

“Alright then, let’s get going!” Eddie exclaimed, already clambering towards his bike. The others started to follow, but Stan grabbed Eddie’s wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

“We can’t - it’s Tuesday, he’s probably not there,” Stan admitted, that same gut-wrenching feeling from the other day back and far stronger than before. The Losers looked at him, confusion clearly lining their features.

“What are you talking about Stan?” There was an edge of fear in Eddie’s voice that hadn’t been there before, and rightfully so. Stan glanced towards Bev, his heart clenching every moment they weren’t with Richie.

“His parents aren’t...at their  _ best _ , on Tuesdays. It’s - it’s his mom’s longest day at work and his dad usually - um, drinks. When he watches the game on TV.” It was the vaguest way Stanley could put it, and apparently it was more than enough. Bev’s fists were clenched, Eddie looked about ready to vomit, Bill and Mike looked shocked, and Ben, sweet  _ sweet _ Ben, looked like he was going to try and punch someone. God, Stan loved the Losers - but their group wouldn’t be complete without Richie. They were at a standstill - either storm the Tozier household, looking for Richie, or try somewhere they hadn’t looked yet. The other Losers looked to Stan for the answer, making him the leader for what may have been the first time in his life.

If they were brave enough to fight a demon-clown from hell, they were brave enough to face Richie’s parents.

“Let’s go, Loser’s Club.”

And with that, they were all on their bikes again, Bill shouting “Hi-ho, Silver! Away!” and racing down the streets towards Richie’s side of town.

As they rode along, Eddie couldn’t stop thinking about the last thing he’d said to Richie before he’d run off.  _ Jesus, when was the last time you fucking showered, asshole? _ This was all his fault. No matter how nice Ben was about it, no matter how many times Mike and Bev told him they’d find Richie, it still hurt to know that the last words he’d said to him were mean in any way. He never meant to hurt Richie - sure, the taller boy got on his nerves all the time, made endless jokes about his mom, and gave him nearly twelve panic attacks a day from doing stupid shit, but Richie was his best fucking friend, and he’d take those words back in a heartbeat if it meant Richie was safe and sound.

They made it to the Tozier house, and Stan marched right up to the front door with Bill by his side, the other four Losers right behind them. The door swung open, revealing an intoxicated Maggie Tozier, and a drunk Wentworth Tozier watching the baseball game loudly from the next room.

“Whaddyou want?” Maggie slurred, looking over the gaggle of random teenagers on her front porch with the utmost ambivalence.

“We’re looking for Richie, is he here?” Stan asked deliberately and confidently, even though his knee began to bounce nervously. He’d never had to face the Tozier parents when they were like this - Richie had just told him about it in bits and pieces growing up. 

His confidence shattered when Maggie began to cackle so hard her body shook. The hairs on Eddie’s neck stood on end because the only time they’d ever heard laughter like that had been when they faced that  _ fucking clown _ , and clearly he wasn’t the only one thinking it - Bev’s hand gripped Bill’s, and Stan looked like he might keel over at any second.  _ It’s not back, It’s not back, It’s not back, It’s not back - _

“That fucking faggot doesn’t live here anymore.”

Silence. Absolute fucking silence. Of all the things they expected her to say, that wasn’t it. Richie didn’t live there anymore - where did he live? How long had he been on his own? And why didn’t he tell any of them, or ask if he could crash on a couch somewhere? Stan was boiling with rage, but Eddie’s rage-o-meter must have topped off quicker, because soon enough Ben and Mike were holding him back, keeping him from punching Maggie right in the jaw.

“I’ll fucking kill you! Don’t you ever say that about Richie again, you fucking bitch!”

And Maggie Tozier had the audacity to just laugh harder at his outburst, looking Eddie right in the eyes as she bent down to his level. 

“Careful, wittle baby Kaspbrak - you wouldn’t want me telling Sonia her boy’s  _ sick _ like mine is, would you?”

Eddie lost his sense of fight for a moment, freezing in Ben and Mike’s grip.  _ Sick.  _ His mother would lose her shit indefinitely. He’d be sent to hospitals, hell, he’d be sent straight to one of those camps like Josh Lewis had been sent a year or two ago and come back with his brain fried and his personality gone. He wasn’t - he didn’t even, there was no way she could’ve known, no way that she could’ve seen through every layer of his being that quickly, right? If he didn’t have her fooled, did he have anyone fooled? Eddie pushed these thoughts down quickly, trying his best to refocus on Richie. Richie. Richie needed help. Richie’s mom was a royal bitch. Richie - maybe Richie was like him too.

“I think that’s enough of that, Mrs. T - we’ll be going now, sorry to interrupt your night,” Bev spoke, saving the day and doing her best to protect them from whatever Maggie decided to throw at them next.

Richie’s mother just smirked at the group, then slammed the door in their face.

The second the door was closed, Stan began to cry. And once Stan began to cry, Eddie started pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, trying to keep himself from losing it. Ben couldn’t take his eyes off of Eddie, Mike couldn’t take his eyes off of Stan, Bill didn’t know who to help first, and Bev - Bev took a deep breath in, a deep breath out, and forced herself to get the group on the right track.

“We have to find him. Come on, get up.” She encouraged the others, trying to get everyone back to their bikes. She made it sound so easy, but nothing was easy about  _ this. _

“He’s been homeless, Bev - homeless! And none of us noticed until now!” Stan exclaimed, his eyes red and his voice cracking, just how it had down beneath Neibolt. “We don’t know where he is, where he’s been staying,  _ fuck _ we don’t even know how long he’s been homeless for! We’re terrible fucking friends!”

“Stan - “

“No! I don’t care if he’s good at hiding it, we should’ve known!  _ I should’ve known! _ ” In an instant, Mike was by his side, his hands on Stan’s shoulders, talking to him softly and trying to help him breathe. The others felt just as lost as Stan looked, not a clue of where to begin.

“The clubhouse.” A discovery, Ben finally thinking back on earlier that day.

“He wouldn’t be there, that’s where we all started - “

“No, he’s - he’s been living at the clubhouse. For - well, for a long time, based on how he smelled.”

“The dirty clothes - he must be keeping his clothes at the clubhouse,” Mike added.

Their hearts broke all over again.

“He’s...he’s been living outside? But it’s November - “

“I  _ knew  _ he had a cold - “

“Oh my G-G-G-God has he, h-has he b-b-b-been eating?”

“Fuck - “

“Guys.” The spiral of realizations came to a halt at Bev’s words. “Let’s go back and check for him, okay? It’s getting late - he’ll have to go somewhere.”

As they biked back to the clubhouse, the same thought echoed through all of their minds: 

_ Please let Richie be okay. _

* * *

Richie had to admit it: jumping into the water without any other clothes to change into was not his smartest decision. Sure, the water felt great - washing away the dirt, scum, and sweat from the past few weeks was incredibly satisfying - but walking back to the clubhouse in sopping wet clothes wasn’t exactly his idea of a fun time.

_ Getting fucking bullied at the arcade would’ve been more fun than this shit, _ he thought to himself as he made the trek through the woods, _ hell, fighting that fucking clown would at least be more entertaining. _

Walking back to the clubhouse alone meant Richie didn’t have to pretend to be okay, so he didn’t. He shivered and trembled every time a breeze blew through his dripping clothes. He let the sporadic hoots of the owls and the occasional branch snapping make him jump. Richie didn’t have to be okay out here, he could be a cold, sad, dripping mess on his way to another night of solitude in the clubhouse, and that would be the end of that.

When he got to the clubhouse, however, Bev was waiting for him outside, a knowing look on her face. Richie quickly turned right back around, planning on sleeping in a tree or throwing himself off the cliff and into the water again, but Bev grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled his wet frame in for a hug. It took Richie a moment to even begin to comprehend what was going on, but goddammit, he had needed a hug these past few weeks, and he wasn’t about to shy away from that. He hugged her back tightly, hoping she didn’t care if she got wet.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Trashmouth.” She whispered, pulling away from him.

“Tell me about it, stud.” He replied, joking as best he could to lighten what would inevitably be a night of heavy realities. It got a laugh out of her, and Richie considered that a success. He hadn’t even realized he was crying until she wiped away the tears from his cheeks.

“Come on, Rich. Everyone’s gonna be so glad to see you.” Richie wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but he appreciated Bev saying they’d be glad to see him, and not that he had worried them sick.

As the pair entered the clubhouse, Richie felt himself putting a smile back on his face.  _ I have to be okay - for them _ . His plastered smile didn’t fool Bev as she placed a hand on his shoulder, her words clear as day: “You don’t have to be strong anymore, Richie. We’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

By the time both of Richie’s feet were firmly on the floor of the clubhouse, he was barely holding his tears in. But one look at the Losers,  _ his _ Losers with those stupid fucking hairnets on, all waiting to see him, and he was full-on, ugly sobbing. The others were by his side in a heartbeat, everyone hugging Richie’s lanky, soaking wet form in what must be the best group hug in all of history. Stan had reached him first, Eddie hot on his heels, and then there were all there, telling him that everything would be okay, that they were sorry ( _ you have nothing to be sorry for _ ), that if Richie ever needed anything,  _ anything _ , that he could come to them without hesitation - and Richie couldn’t stop fucking crying, he wished his eyes would stop leaking fucking liquid but instead he let it out, and he let his friends in.

“Th-They kicked me out because - because I, shit, fuck - th-th-they kicked me out because I’m a f-fucking faggot - “ Richie cried out, wanting them to know the truth.  _ They’ll hate you, they’ll all hate you, you disgusting fairy, you absolute worthless piece of - _

“Hey.  _ Hey. _ Look at me, dipshit.” And there was Bev, her hands cupping his cheeks, her bright blue eyes meeting his deep brown ones. “We love you no matter who you love. No ifs, ands, or buts. You’re our Richie no matter what.”

“And don’t use that word,” Stan said into Richie’s shoulder, still hugging him. “That’s an ugly word, and liking boys isn’t ugly at all.”

And suddenly, for what felt like the millionth time that evening, Richie was crying again, his nose all snotty and his eyes red and puffy - but these tears were the happiest tears he’s ever cried. He didn’t have a house anymore, but he’d found a home, right here in this group hug. 

After what must have been an eternity of hugging (an eternity, but still not quite long enough), Richie took his glasses off and wiped his eyes. He laughed a little as he put them back on, looking at each and every one of the people he was lucky enough to call his best friends. “I call dibs on the hammock.” It was a bit of a morbid joke, but it still scored some chuckles from the group.

“Actually, I was thinking maybe you could stay at my place.” Stan offered quietly. For a moment, Richie didn’t answer, his eyes wide and his hands shaking. “I mean, you don’t - you certainly don’t have to if you don’t - if you’d feel more comfortable staying he - oomph!”

Richie had tackled Stan into a hug quicker than a snicker, the two of them quickly falling to the clubhouse floor. “Stan the Man and Trashmouth Tozier as roommates? This is the best duo ever! Derry better watch the fuck out, because a storm’s coming!” He yelled, full-Richie-Tozier-antics back in action. Stan tried his best to avoid the slobbery kisses Richie was peppering all over his face, pulling his hairnet down to use as a shield from Richie’s over the top drooling celebration.

The tension, the sadness, the overwhelming worry and concern - it flooded out of the clubhouse as if a bubble of happiness had surrounded them. This was happy. They deserved happy. They deserved group hugs and secret clubhouses and nights free of demon clowns and shitty parents.

And as Richie fell asleep that night on a real bed, after taking a real shower, after eating a real meal, and after maybe holding onto Eddie’s hand the whole ride over to Stan’s, he thought to himself: 

_ I’ve got the best fucking friends in the motherfucking galaxy. _  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Should there be a sequel? A prequel? A fic entirely unrelated to this one? You tell me!


End file.
